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Wade grits his teeth and tries not to glare too harshly at Spider-Man, whose head is currently attempting not to loll against the dirty brick alley wall. It’s a testament to how badly hurt Peter is, because when Wade has to tear open the thigh of his suit up to his underwear, Peter doesn’t say a single thing, only a hiss of pain.
“You’re really a fucking idiot,” Wade admonishes, glancing quickly out of the alley for any signs of police or more of the thugs they’ve been fighting. With the alley clear of danger but smelling heavily like piss and garbage, Wade rummages through his tactical belt pouches until he comes up with a cord of rope.
“You can’t say that to me. I’m injured,” Spider-Man says. Actually, it’s a miracle Wade knows what he said at all, with how rasped his voice is.
“Oh,” Wade splutters, tries not to startle Peter with how livid he is, “Oh, really? You’re injured? Whose fucking fault is that, Web Head?” At that, Peter says nothing. Good, Wade thinks. For once, he can’t stand the attitude right now.
Wade shuffles closer to Peter, cornering him tighter into the rotting brick wall and wrapping the rope once, twice around his upper thigh, above the bullet graze by several inches. When Wade pulls the cord tight, Peter cries out but quickly grits his teeth, his shout simpering into a shaky whimper. With trembling hands, Peter pulls his mask up around the bridge of his nose. His nose is running in the cold, with a mix of snot and blood that really shouldn’t make Wade’s heart constrict with endearment but it does.
“You’re gonna be fine, Webs,” Wade reassures, ripping the calf of Spider-Man’s suit, laying it across the bullet graze, and thanking Stark internally that he made the fabric ridiculously absorbent to blood.
“I know,” Peter says, sniffling but propping himself up higher against the wall, “I know, Wade.”
“I’m saying that for myself! To reassure me!” Wade hisses, exasperated, and it makes Peter laugh, throwing his hands over his bruised belly as his laughter subsides. It cracks a smile out of Wade, which is bad because he wants Spidey to think he’s pissed because he is.
“Careful,” Peter says softly, “or I’ll start to think you’ve got a heart.”
One of the would-be muggers webbed to the opposite wall makes muffled noises of protest, starting to curse and squirm. He’s no match for the strength of Peter’s webs, but Wade grapples for the man’s abandoned gun on the ground and throws it at his head without taking his eyes off Peter. A grunt, and then he’s unconscious.
“Nice throw,” Peter mumbles, eyes closing.
Wade runs the tips of his fingers along Peter’s ribs, the bones of his hips, checking for breaks below the bruises before he begins to pull him up. “Yeah. Maybe I should try out for the mutant and mutate softball club.”
“There’s a softball club?” Peter asks, with the audacity to sound hurt.
“It’s very exclusive,” Wade says highly, and Spider-Man allows a slow smile.
Even if Wade didn’t have some super strength, pulling Peter up was always surprisingly easy, all lean, slim muscle. Peter throws one arm around Wade’s shoulder, his shot leg bent up and balancing on one foot. “I can swing us home.” Peter is already putting two fingers to his palm.
Wade laughs. Loud. It startles the mugger that’s still conscious but webbed to the wall. It even makes Peter look up, sobered. “I’m gonna make an executive decision and take a hard pass on that one, Spidey.” Spider-Man complains vigorously, whining about efficiency and Wade, trust me, which Wade has no problem ignoring right now.
Deadpool could have called a cab, but one second of thought destroyed that idea. He isn’t about to lead some random underpaid taxi driver right to Spider-Man’s home. Especially not when he’s injured.
This is why they’re taking the 7 train back to 74th street at midnight in full gear, a shoddy-looking mercenary, and a very injured Spider-Man. Not even subway employees stop them. Some people pull out their phones to dial, eyes trailing over Spider-Man’s bloody thigh in hushed distress. But one look from Deadpool makes them hurry to get on with their own business without fail.
By the time they make it to Spider-Man’s apartment, he’s wincing with every hobbled step, nose and lips crusty with blood and the wound on his thigh still trickling. He’s breathing heavily, and Wade would bet that his ears are ringing. The hazy glow of the street lamps settle over their frames.
“Top floor, right?” Wade asks, craning his neck and narrowing his eyes at the old brick apartment building. He’s been to Spidey’s place before, scattered occasions every now and then. This isn’t the first time one of them has been hurt.
Peter hums in affirmation. “How’d you remember?”
Wade looks away to hide a fond smile - he’s still mad at Spider-Man, god damn it. “It’s November but that’s the only apartment with an open window. Don’t think you take your keys with you on patrols.”
“You’re a lot more observant than you let people think, Wade.”
“It’s part of the job, Web-Head.” He’d shrug, but Peter is starting to put more and more weight on him. “It’s also how I know that you’re getting worse before you get better.”
With that, they start the slow pace of going up six flights of fire escapes. About halfway up with enough time to let Wade get frustrated again, he speaks. “You shouldn't have taken that bullet for me,” Wade grits out, trying to keep his grip light but supportive on Spidey’s side as they shuffle their way up.
“You were kneeling. It would’ve gotten you in the head. I could sense it happening. Better that it was my leg,” Peter gasps. Like it makes up for it. And in a way, it does. He knows it isn’t his fault he managed to get shot. How could it be? Spider-Man is good. Really good. He’s a hero, too selfless for his own good, absolutely guileless. He can’t help himself. God.
But still. “No. No! Not better, Spider-Man! I can heal. You can’t.”
“I… have a healing factor,” Peter tries, but he already knows what Wade means. They only have a flight of stairs left. Peter refuses to just let Wade carry him.
“No, the fuck, you don’t! Not a good one! Not good enough for something like this, for what you do. If I get shot, I’m up in three minutes, tops. If I die from it, maybe ten minutes. And that’s pushing it. I heal even when I don’t want to.” They make it to the top of the fire escape.
“But if you die?” Wade asks incredulously, scoffing, face close enough to Spider-Man’s that he can smell the metallic blood around Peter’s lips. Peter doesn’t move away. “If you die, that’s it! There’s no getting up for you. No more Spider-Man. No more you.” He strengthens his grip around the hero’s waist when his knees start to buckle.
In what world it’s fair that Wade should get to live again when Spider-Man can’t, Wade doesn’t know.
Wade slips his hand out from around his waist to wedge the window open fully, and Peter leans against the mossy brick, fingers webbed there to keep himself up. The only noises are Peter’s heaving breaths and the rusty creak of his fire escape. He’s staring at Wade.
“I’m sorry,” Spider-Man says, voice cracking.
Wade considers it for a moment, smiles warmly under the mask. “Nah, you’re not. And that’s okay.”
Even with only half his face visible, he looks shocked. Good, Wade thinks. Then he offers Wade a small smile too.
“Come on, Hot Stuff, in you go.” He pulls Peter’s fingers off the wall and guides him in as carefully as he can. Even still, Peter tumbles in through the window and almost immediately collapses onto the floor beneath it in the living room with a faint moan.
Wade finds a light switch soon enough but shuts it off quickly when Peter shields his eyes like he’s been burned. He settles with a lamp instead. He leaves only for a brief moment and comes back victorious with a first aid kit from the bathroom. To his credit, Spider-Man is doing his best not to just lay down flat on the floor.
For a few precious seconds, Wade debates even asking Spider-Man. Then he comes to his senses and realizes he won’t be able to fix him up otherwise. “Hey. So. You’ve gotta strip.”
Peter takes a break from his panting long enough to stare up at Wade. A beat. And then, “You’re right. ‘Kay. But the mask stays.”
Wade blinks. “Yeah. Yeah, of course, Webs.” He crouches down beside him, and helps when Peter struggles with the effort. Wade takes over and he lets him.
“Don’t make this weird,” Spider-Man warns.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Wade grins wide and Peter just huffs.
With the suit gone, Wade can see the extent of the rest of Spider-Man’s injuries. His thigh is red and still freshly bloody, yes. The graze was deep. But up and down his ribs are mottled clusters of bruises, dark reds and blues and deep purples. Wade grimaces, makes a sound between anger and sympathy. If his ribs aren’t fractured, they’re definitely bruised. Underwear riding up high on his thighs, Spidey has several cuts around the wound. Gently — so gently, gentler than he probably needs to be — Wade slips a finger under the hem of his underwear, pulling the inseam up even higher on his injured leg to keep inspecting the nicks around the wound. He doesn't allow himself to focus on the warm warm skin against his hand, not while Spider-Man is in such a rotten state. Spider-Man jolts slightly at the sensation, a choked sound cloying out of him; out of surprise, pain, or just misery over the entire situation, Wade doesn't know. "Sorry, I know, sorry, Webs, I'm just... " Wade squints, inching his face closer as he eyes more of the cuts around the bullet wound.
Something like pride and relief hits his chest when Wade realizes that Peter’s skin is so strong that it made the bullet fracture from the impact of a graze. They’re shrapnel cuts.
“Are you staring at my junk.” It isn’t even a question; he just sounds tired.
Wade shushes him. “No, you lovable idiot. Not this time.”
Peter waits for Wade to continue.
“Do you know how fuckin’ lucky you are? Look at that trajectory. I know you’re a genius. It should’ve gone straight through your entire leg. It should've gone deep enough to get an artery. Your tissue is so durable that it drove the bullet off course and shattered it.”
Peter nods before wincing and rubbing his neck. “Yeah. I know. Doesn’t feel too lucky right now, though.”
“About that. Let’s get you cleaned up, Webs,” Wade says softly, unpacking the medical kit. Peter tacks his hands to the floor with his adhesive grip and bites his bottom lip in anticipation. He’s never been good with gore. Like, ever. Especially his own. Wade has had to patch up almost every injury he’s gotten.
Not that he minds, of course. Never.
It takes a while - between Wade being especially careful, Peter crying out every now and then and almost ripping the floorboards out, and the extent of his injuries. But after an hour and Wade feeling guilty as fuck, Peter’s bullet wound is finally sterile, stitched, and wrapped. The shrapnel has been pulled out, cuts cleaned and covered, and a thick roll of tight bandage around his ribs. Peter only needed one stitch on his lip, and a silly-looking butterfly bandage was taped to the bridge of his nose.
By the time Wade cleans and packs everything away, tossing Spider-Man’s ruined suit in the trash, Peter is practically naked and very asleep. It’s no effort at all scooping him up and laying him in his bed. Peter wakes up when Wade tucks him in, staring up at the mercenary.
“Thanks for helping me,” he says, and Wade can tell he’s trying to keep the pain out of his voice.
“Thanks for saving me. Don’t make a habit out of it.” Wade smiles, his mask stretching with the gesture. But his voice is serious.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Peter crosses a finger over his heart for emphasis.
Wade chuckles. “Good boy,” he hums, delightedly ignoring the affronted sound that comes out of Spider-Man’s mouth.
As he’s leaving, one leg out the window, Deadpool yells back, “Call me tomorrow night. I don’t want you fainting like a damsel if you try and change your gauze.”
Peter calls out a string of words that sound suspiciously like cursing Wade out. There’s no anger in them.